


The Republic of Small

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Drunk Sex, First Time, M/M, Mishalecki - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Big, small. Moose, Misha. It's all relative after a few drinks. And a few more kisses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Republic of Small

San Antonio. A break. A few days free before a con.

Misha's never been there and Jared wants to drive for awhile. So they go.

It's sunshine and air and Jared's people all around. And some tourists, too, by the looks of it.

And Misha.

"Huh," he says. Staring. "It's not as small as I thought."

Jay shoots him a face.

"Dude, this is, like, one of the most important places in American history."

" _Texas_ history," Misha huffs through his aviators.

"Texas history, American history, same thing."

"Pretty much not, man. Texas was a country before it was a state."

"I know that!" Jay snaps. Loud. Gets a few eyeballs in his direction from the people ahead of them in line. "But it's been a state for a long, long time."

Misha squints up. "Uh huh. And was it a state when it got fast and bloody here at the Alamo?"

Crap.

In his head, Jay can see Mrs. Carillo in fourth grade, pointing at a picture of some dude in a coonskin cap and spelling A-L-A-M-O out on the board. 

But.

"Um," he manages. "Yes?"

"Pffft," the little girl ahead of them spits, spinning and flipping her braid like _duh_. "Nuh uh. It was a _republic_." 

"Um," Jay says again, and Misha just laughs. Reaches up and freaking wrecks Jay's hair. 

"She looks ready to take up arms, Jay," he says. "Better apologize before she's forced to defend Texas' honor on your shins."

Jay feels his face go red white blue. Gives the girl a smile, the brightest one he can find.

"Wow, you're smart," he says, and check goes to him because she sparkles in the noonday sun, she does.

"You're pretty," she says.

"Yeah, he's alright," Misha shrugs. "He'll do."

Jay looks away, looks down, because he would really like to. Do. For Misha.

But this isn't really the place to bring that up. In the middle of the freaking Alamo.

He's not ready to make his last stand, for Christ's sake.

But then the girl flits away and oh, hey. Advantage Jay. The line's stutter stepped ahead and they have to scurry to make it up.

**

Dinner's more booze than food because Misha gets hung up on size again.

"This isn't as small as I thought," he muses, turning the margarita glass in his hand. "I mean, small as compared to what? A fish tank?"

Jay rolls his eyes around a mouthful of chips. Kinda swallows. Sorta. "At least they don't say 'venti' or 'grande' or whatever."

Misha's still studying the glass like his face is an electron microscope. So close that he's getting salt on his eyebrows.

"Dude," Jay says, poking him in the shoulder. "Come on. What difference does it make, what size it is?"

Misha eyes him through the lime wedge.

"Truth in advertising, Jay. That's why. Accurate labels. How can we understand the world if we can't agree on a common taxonomy?"

"You are a fucking weirdo," Jay says. Or the tequila does.

"Yes," Misha nods, like it's some awesome insight and hey, maybe it is.

"This," Misha pronounces to Jay, to the waiter, to the whole fucking Riverwalk, practically. "This. Is a medium. And so dubbed, I drink thee"--one quick dark swallow straight down his throat--"and pronounce thee above average. And thus good."

He slams the glass on the table and laughs, a laugh that brings the waiter and two more alcoholic cacti.

By the third round, the ladies at the next table dive for their purses and ask to be moved.

By the fourth, Misha's mouth is crusted in salt and Jay's sucking on limes like crazy. Paying no attention to Misha's tongue as it flips out lazy after every sip and pulls more salty in, no. Is not.

By the fifth, Jay's brain is revolting, alternately seizing and freezing everything around them into a single still image and freaking the fuck out and folding Misha out like a fan, four of him across the table at once.

"Hi, Mish," he marbles. Wants to see which one will speak. Which one's real.

"Jay," all four of them say, swaying under the moonlight. "You're a mess."

Damn it.

"'M not. Only had four. And they were small." He reaches over and pats all the Mishas on the crown. "Just like you. Little. Like you."

The Mishas fold over, come back and throw money over the table. And grabs.

"There's a lot of power in small," he breathes in Jay's ear. "Come on, asshole. Bedtime for you."

**

The hotel's way way far, it seems like. Way more far than it was before.

By the time Jay sees his bed, it's been years. At least. Hundreds of miles since his last cactus and he's thirsty as hell.

Misha's still swearing, cursing Jay's children and his children's hamsters and muttering other stuff that Jay can't understand. Maybe Misha doesn't speak tequila. Who knows.

He pushes hard, real hard, and Jay droops over the sheets, goes back first into the pillows with a sigh.

Stares at the ceiling or whatever it is over his head and oh. It's Misha. One of him, anyway.

"Jay," he's saying. "You good? You need something before I go? Water? A trash can? A priest?"

Jay's face goes all wide and happy and he feels just freaking amazing, right then.

"Salty," he chirps, and reaches. Gets Misha's neck in his hands and tugs and Misha flutters down, like in slow mo or something. Gets tangled in Jay and that's good.

"Real good," he tries to say, but Misha's tongue gets in the way and makes it hard to hear.

There's kissing, it seems like. Swipe of salt over his mouth and shots of lime across his lips. Little Misha sounds ricocheting off Jay's teeth. Big Misha hands on his shoulders. Pushing. Holding.

Jay's fingers break out on their own, cave dive between their hips and snug tight around Misha's, um. 

Misha whips down, his cock--oh hey, that is--knocking Jay's fingers and oh. The look on his faces. The sound. It's all stereo and awesome so Jay does it again. Squeezes a little and watches Misha snap like a puppet on a string and make a noise that's kinda high, kinda not like him at all, and it's like a laser down into Jay's haze, a little beam of light to lead him out of the tequila, just enough so he can see.

Growl hiss push turn and Misha's on his back, sorta, his spine flipped up off the mattress, moving in time with his mouth which is making little Misha noises again.

_Sigh moan Jay_ , he's saying. _Groan. Jay sigh please. Jay_.

Drunk drunk Jay knows he's fucking drunk because the zipper confounds him, makes him stop and study when he should be ripping and licking until Misha figures it out. Cool. Opens himself up and _groan groan jay fuck jay_.

Jay just looks for a second. Stares. 

"'S not as small as I thought," he says.

Misha starts laughing, strangled and high, and it sounds pretty to Jay. But wrong. So he remembers the licking and gets down to the sucking and Misha's little sounds get big. Makes Jay's ears ring in a loop of _fuck_ and _fuck_ and _yes like that yes_ and _fuck_ and _fuck_ again.

But Jay wants to see. Can't see, like this. Not really. No light. So he trades his mouth for his fist, yes, and slides up. Looms over. Jerks Misha sloppy fast and smiles down at him. Down.

Which Misha likes, apparently, because he velcroes his hands to Jay's shoulders and moans.

Says something like: "God. So big, Jay. So fucking big, honey, I can't--"

So Jay leans down, gets it, pushes his face right into Misha's, free hand holding on to hair tight, maybe too.

Wants to say: "Not going anywhere. Got you. You can't. Bigger than you, Mish. You and your small."

But nothing comes out because Misha's hips shudder and his eyes fly open and he shoots sweet and sticky over Jay's fingers and lots of other stuff too, probably. In the dark.

Mess heap tumble and kiss stutter sigh. 

Jay's cock is zombie-ing in his jeans, shambling and kinda alive, but tequila wins.

He licks the salt from Misha's neck and sleeps. Yes. The big spoon. He sleeps.

**

In the morning, it's not as weird as it should be. Building sex on top of tequila like that.

But it isn't weird, not really, especially after Misha works Jared out of his jeans and traces the taxonomy of his cock.

Misha dubs it "Jay," one quick dark swallow straight down his throat, and Jay pronounces it good. Well, _good misha god fuck how can you take it please god misha fuck gonna fuck you so_ \--

Let's stick with "good."

They don't see much of San Antonio, after that.

Outside, it's sunshine and air and Jared's people all around. And some tourists, too, probably.

Inside, it's just them. For now.

A break.

They'll figure out what to call it later.

**Author's Note:**

> For buttfuckingbrothers, who prompted: "Jared discovers Misha's huge size kink and takes advantage."


End file.
